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   I'm M.C.A. Hogarth, author and artist. I write fiction (science fiction, fantasy, romance, etc), nonfiction (mostly about business and parenthood) and draw pictures, mostly of dragons, elves and people in beautiful clothes. Below you can see some of what I'm doing currently, and check up on my status. Writing• Latest E-Fiction: Check out the fiction I have online, what order to read it in and where to buy it.
• Latest Paperback: Clays Beneath the Skies (Amazon) , a collection of seven short stories about the tri-sexed alien Jokka, including Strange Horizons Reader's Choice "Unspeakable." With foreword by Hugo Award-winning editor Susan Marie Groppi.
• Current Serial: Black Blossom. Return to Kherishdar and the mannered world of the Ai-Naidari aliens in this sequel to The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar (follow at the black blossom tag). Updates weekly on Mondays.
• Most Recently Completed Serial: A Rosary of Stones and Thorns. Love, redemption, angels and humans. Also the Apocalypse, a grackle, four horses and a demon or two. (follow at the a rosary of stones and thorns tag). Art • Latest Project #1: The Three Micahs: A Column on Doing Business as an Artist. (tag: three micahs) Cartoon jaguars explain the challenges of being a creative professional. Updates on the 15th each month.
• Latest Project #2: The 100 Sketchbook Retrospective! (tag: 100 sketchbook retrospective) Fourteen years and over 9000 sketches later, walk with me down memory lane! Updates every month.
• Latest Sale: Originals are for sale here. Prints are available from ImageKind. My Zazzle store is here for mugs and shirts and bags and such! Otherwise you can keep up on my offers on Livejournal through my "sale" tag.
• General:
If you have a lot of spare time and haven't browsed it yet, I have over 3000 images available on my website, sketches, paintings and comics. Cons: Anthrocon 2012, NecronomiCon 2012 StatusBalance Card 5-Card Readings: Available Balance Card Keepsake Paintings: Available Commissions: Not taking them. Illustration projects: Not taking them. P.O. BoxEmail me for my address, if you'd like to request materials or send a tip or donation.Stardancer Home.
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The Kickstarter is… 300%+ funded on day 3. I admit when I designed it, I thought I’d maybe get the amount I asked for, or a little over. This is… bordering on rather more success than I planned for. o_O
But anyway! Today’s update is about Napoli Yellow! Go read!
***
There was new art last night, in case you missed it. Yes, I am sneaky that way.
***
We are a third of the way toward a Friday Black Blossom (wherein we head to the alien part of town… whooooooo). So we’ll see if that comes up tomorrow. If not we will definitely get it Monday!
***
Thank you to all the people who left me new reviews! I really appreciate your help, and it really is help. Two lines or twenty, it makes a difference.
And that’s all the news for now. I’d like to get back to daily post type stuff, but Heaven knows when things will settle down enough for that. We shall see.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: kickstarter
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We continue Black Blossom, the novel that follows The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar. It is a form of quasi-communal storytelling, as described here. Feel free to ask questions, converse or react as you wish in the comments; the Calligrapher and I are at your disposal, as time permits us both. And don’t fear… your questions are shaping the narrative. Read closely in the future and you may see yourself referred to there.
Black Blossom, Part 71
A Story of Kherishdar as Translated by M.C.A. Hogarth
We passed the night in peaceable slumber. Kor did not kick, for which he was saved the necessity of plying me with twelve apologies, massage, tea and citrus trifles. And I woke happy… but very, very sore. Sufficiently so that attempting to move my arm from off the mattress set off a string of bright, deep aches through the muscle, and the rest of me promised similar cruelties. The colony did not agree with me. I have since learned we have a word for that—morananil, something like “world travel sickness”—but it is not something I was familiar with then.
“Just this day longer,” Kor said, noting the flinch I had hoped he would miss. He caught my hand and rubbed the threads of thin muscle leading to the wrist. “I’ll send the message this morning to the capital, to Thirukedi, telling Him what we know and that we need aid, and we will be quit of this.”
“I so pray,” I answered, twisting my hand until I could thread my fingers in his. “But I will also let you make the arrangements for breakfast and bathe first.”
“I’ll pull your bath when I’m done,” he promised, and kissed our joined hands.
I did not rise until he came for me; further, I allowed him to help me out of bed. I have made jokes previously about being old and decrepit, aunera… but those had been intended as humor. At home I rarely noticed that I was no longer as limber or strong as I had been a decade ago because the world is kind and my work is rarely arduous. But on the colony I felt each of my years, twice the weight they should be, and sleeping only seemed to have made the situation worse.
“It’s because you were lying in a single place for too long,” Kor said. “It will pass after you’ve been up a while. Enough for you to move again, anyway.”
I murmured, “These alien worlds…”
“And yet, they are ours,” Shame said firmly. “Shall I help you to the bath?”
“No,” I said, “I think I’m fine now.”
I know it seems as if I am dwelling on my aches and pains, aunera, like the worst of visitors whose conversation fixates solely on the pole star of his own miseries. But the issue is relevant—gods hear me but I wish it was not!—and so I feel constrained to explain it to you. We were all feeling the difference in the worlds, even if I was the only one to be quite so deeply affected. None of us were accustomed to the colony.
So, I apologize, I do.
I bathed carefully, then, letting the hot water serve as balm for my aches. Whatever salts Kor had poured into them seemed to help, for by the end of my soak I was feeling more myself. I was expecting to dress myself so I was surprised not to be left to it… or at least, I was until I saw who it was that awaited me. Ajan was standing at the bath’s edge with a towel and my clothes over one shoulder.
“I can dress myself,” I protested, but without vehemence. I observed the form only. “This isn’t necessary, penokedi.”
“Of course it’s not,” he said as he applied the towel. “I do it because it pleases me, and because I am in your debt to days’ endings.”
Some of you are familiar enough with our way of speaking to sense that this is one word, and carries a specific meaning: tanshe. Some translate it as “forever” or “eternally,” but I feel this does it an injustice, making it sound too much like poetic hyperbole. Tanshe is a deeply personal and very exact amount of time: from the moment you use the word… until the moment you die. And you do not use such a word, aunera, unless you truly, completely mean it.
“Ajan,” I said softly.
“Osulkedi,” he interrupted, and lifted his hands, palm up. “Permit me?”
“Yes?” I said, moved by the earnest appeal.
He took my hands and kissed their backs, first one, than the other. And then rested his cheek on them, bowed.
“I accept your debt,” I said at last, my voice very quiet. “And with it, the bond between us.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, and pressed his brow to my hands before releasing them.
As he stood and resumed drying me off, I said with what I fear was a hint of mischief, “Was it all that you dreamed?”
And with matching humor, he answered, “Better to ask, was it all that he dreamed?” And then he grinned at me and whisked the towel off before handing me my robes and leaving me to dress.
Truly, they deserved one another.
And yes, I grinned to say it, too.
ahha [aa HHah], (noun / interjection) – responsibility; stewardship; care; maintenance; the out-breath of the universe. That which maintains the world, and which maintains everything else. The sacred foundation of all things.
***
We are putting together a family here, you perceive.
As always, consider voting for us on Top Web Fiction here. People do find us that way!
You can also subscribe, or email for a mailing address to send a physical donation.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, serial, writing
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We continue Black Blossom, the novel that follows The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar. It is a form of quasi-communal storytelling, as described here. Feel free to ask questions, converse or react as you wish in the comments; the Calligrapher and I are at your disposal, as time permits us both. And don’t fear… your questions are shaping the narrative. Read closely in the future and you may see yourself referred to there.
Black Blossom, Part 70
A Story of Kherishdar as Translated by M.C.A. Hogarth
Reck this: Once there was an aridkedi, a country Merchant, who was known far afield for her gift for making pots of extraordinary beauty… such beauty, in fact, that to see them broken was a cause for grief among all those who bought her work. They often brought her shattered pieces after one of those breaks, begging her to mend the pot, or grieving if it was beyond aid.
Now, the potter was a good friend to an artist, who was taking tea with her one day when another Ai-Naidari brought a collection of these pieces to the shop. After the patron had left, the potter poured these pieces into a box behind her counter.
‘What is that box?’ said the artist.
‘This is where I dump the remains of my broken works,’ the potter said. ‘I have no use for the pieces, so I collect them here until I have time to dispose of them.’
‘Give them to me!’ the artist said. ‘I shall put them to work again.’
The aridkedi did so allow, and the artist took the box home. She assembled the broken pieces into new vases, strange and fragile and variegated. These vases became very popular as vauni haale—vessels used as focus for meditation. Some say they helped popularize the use of such vessels.
This is the parable of the broken pot. Reck it well.
toril [toh REEL ], (noun) – broken piece; shard; particularly, a piece of shattered glass through which one can see refractions.
***
The fathrikedi made good on her promise and put me to sleep on the massage table. Some part of that was no doubt the greater world-weight of the colony, for the moment I laid my body down, I felt the sudden weariness in every muscle; but some part of it was certainly her skill, and she had it in full. Hers were gentle hands, and deft ones, and though I would have found her touch discomfiting in the past Kor had worn down my resistance to the touch that is, after all, encouraged so deliberately among us by our rules and our customs. A society that does not enshrine touch and give it proper context with names and traditions may claim to be one that has freed touch… but I suspect what it creates instead is the very opposite. Where there is too much freedom, there is also much anxiety about whether one is well and truly allowed what one yearns for. Fear dictates one’s actions, rather than license.
But I digress. I slept until dinner, which the proprietor brought with the faint song of the bells on the door.
“Have you a name for me yet?” the Decoration asked with bright eyes once the proprietor had withdrawn.
“I am thinking,” I said, and distributed the bowls and plates. When I would have risen to knock on the bedroom door, she placed her tail on the floor between my foot and my next step.
“Don’t,” she said. “They aren’t hungry yet. At least, not for this sort of food.”
“I would have thought exertion such as theirs would require fuel,” I said.
She laughed. “They are young, osulkedi. I assure you, they won’t notice.”
So she and I shared our part of the meal, and she ate with the same refinement of grace with which she moved. Truly, she was a pleasure to behold: the thought that she might abandon her hhaza was painful to contemplate.
“Do you truly feel as if you haven’t been living since the lord’s love?” I asked at last.
She looked at me over the rim of her bowl, tapered fingers tracing the cut edge of a pale yellow melon. And then she looked down with a faint frown. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I begin to wonder if… I have just… fallen in love. If in fact…” She stopped, lost in thought, then met my eyes. “If perhaps I have experienced, briefly, what you told me you felt for your wife.”
“The one, rare, perfect love,” I said, remembering our conversation.
“Yes,” she said, eyes lowered. “There is some guidance among fathriked about what to do in such a situation, but… it is rare. The personalities drawn to the caste are not usually the kind to form strong attachments.”
“What is the guidance then?” I asked, fascinated. The things I was learning about the castes on this errand!
“That such affairs rarely end well,” she admitted with a sigh. “We love, osulkedi, but we are rarely loved in return in the same way. And we are passed from hand to hand… even if we do have such a singular love, we are not always lucky enough to remain with the object of our passion.”
“And you fear it is so, with the lord,” I said, quiet. “You love him, and he feels for you, but not as you do. Not any longer.”
She sighed again, glum, and set the melon aside. “How humbling it is, Calligrapher… to know how much you need someone, and see how little they need you.”
“Humbling… and terrifying, I would think,” I said.
She smiled at me, tired. “How lucky you are to not know.”
I set my bowl down. “Haraa.”
“Pardon?” she said.
“Your name,” I said. “Haraa.”
She flushed at the ears and inclined her head. “If it pleases you, osulkedi.”
“It does,” I said. “And I hope it pleases the fathrikedi.”
She lowered her eyes. “You do me honor.”
“I speak what I see,” I said. And that is what I called her forever after: “Courage.”
That is how I came to pass the first dareleni without Kor: asleep on a divan with a fathrikedi for company. If the two lovers made any noises that should have darkened my sensitive ears, I did not hear them, and so exhausted was I that I did not even dream. There I would have stayed the night, in fact, had Shame not come for me at some hour, ancestors alone knew how late. I could not see him in the darkness, but I knew his fingertips when they trailed my cheek, and his breath when he kissed my brow, drawing me blearily from slumber.
“Come, ajzelin,” he murmured. “You need a real bed.”
“Ajan—” I mumbled.
“Has a duty to stand tonight, as usual,” Kor said, sliding an arm under mine and pulling me from the divan.
“Haraa,” I said, giving him a moment’s pause until she answered, her voice gentle.
“I am fine, osulkedi. Go rest.”
As we crossed the threshold into the bedroom, Kor murmured, “You named her Courage?”
“To love is an act of bravery,” I answered, eyes closed, and so I did not see his smile, but somehow I knew that he had.
And with that, I fell into a proper bed, one long enough to stretch my limbs, and Kor wrapped his dense, heavy arm around my torso and pulled me into him amid sheets that smelled of joyful exertion, and of family, and I knew then that I would never go back to living alone. The studio, the temple, our separate work, our possible lovers… all of it could be arranged, somehow. And would be.
Thirukedi was wise.
***
We are done now with the interpersonal stuff. Next episode, on to the plot! Such as it is!
As always, consider voting for us on Top Web Fiction here. People do find us that way!
You can also subscribe, or email for a mailing address to send a physical donation.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, serial, writing
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I was just reading about how number of reviews count more for Amazon algorithms than the actual rating average of those reviews (which is why some authors are happy to inspire lots of one-star hate reviews because that’s better than being ignored, mathematically speaking). Basically, it’s better to have thirty one-star reviews than one five-star review. Having thirty three or four or five-star reviews looks a lot better, of course, but in terms of making you look like someone worth taking a chance on, counter-intuitively “more reviews” trumps “great reviews.” (Maybe because people assume the book with five five-star reviews was only reviewed by the author’s friends. :, )
So, I thought I’d make the note: even a two-line “I stayed up all night reading this” or “this book was pretty good, I liked the romantic parts” or even “this wasn’t my favorite thing but it was pretty good entertainment” review is better than none. For the print books, you can even go with “the inside of this book is pretty/looks professional.”
And yes, Amazon is still king for those things. Much as I appreciate the Smashwords reviews, no one reads them. Even B&N is a far, far distant second to Amazon’s sales. :/
Sales have been pretty sluggish lately, so every little bit helps. :)
(I should note, I have a ton of titles out and don’t expect people to review them all! So if you only have time for one, the longer ones are best: Wingless, Spots, Rosary, Shell, Clays, the Aphorisms and Admonishments.)
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: books, marketing, reviews, writing
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I am observing lately that my doodles sell well. This is not a surprise: you’re always going to find more people with $30 than $3000. I’ve known this since my first livestream, even. And it’s deeply pleasing, because I make art, and the art leaves my hands, and I get some money in. If I didn’t enjoy the doodling, I wouldn’t be doing the Kickstarter Monday.
…but some part of me really, really wants to do the big ambitious pieces that no one can afford.
This is the point where treating art like a business will cause angst.
All people who do creative work for money recognize this particular conundrum. The extent to which we bow to Business Manager is the extent to which we thrive financially. But we wouldn’t be Artists if we didn’t fight for the reins… and if we didn’t feel it was our divine duty to win them and run off with the bit in our teeth on our madcap joys, screaming defiance.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: art, art business book, business, marketing, three jaguars, three micahs
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We continue Black Blossom, the novel that follows The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar. It is a form of quasi-communal storytelling, as described here. Feel free to ask questions, converse or react as you wish in the comments; the Calligrapher and I are at your disposal, as time permits us both. And don’t fear… your questions are shaping the narrative. Read closely in the future and you may see yourself referred to there.
Black Blossom, Part 69
A Story of Kherishdar as Translated by M.C.A. Hogarth
It was a fine moment for Ajan to knock—that is not sarcasm, aunera, for I shudder to think of him opening the door on me forcing a sexual release out of his beloved master—so I felt relief when Kor said, “Come.”
To his credit, Ajan’s pause at the sight of us entwined was so infinitesimal I would have needed one of Seraeda’s instruments to measure it. He came smartly to the bed’s edge and said, “Qenain’s master scheduler has set up an interview for us with the Serapis aunerai, in the morning, an hour after breakfast.”
“Well done,” Kor said, sitting up to stretch.
“Tomorrow?” I said, stifling my dismay. “I was hoping to put paid to this errand as quickly as possible, and now we will have to tarry here for an entire night?”
“I think I can find something to do with an entire night,” Kor said, and touched his fingertips to Ajan’s chin, startling the youth. “What do you think, menuredi?”
Now this pause made the first one look positively leisurely. The eagerness and hope that energized the youth was palpable, though his bearing and speech were punctiliously correct. “I might have some notions, masuredi, if you are so inclined.”
“I think it is past time for me to be so inclined,” Kor said, and to my delight allowed me to witness his first lover’s kiss with his penokedi. It was a sweet, brief thing that looked, on the surface, much like the chaste kisses he gave me… and left all of us with our fur on end.
“I believe I shall see to the fathrikedi, and perhaps arrange our dinner,” I said, sliding off the bed. I accepted with concealed amusement the robe Ajan found for me with such alacrity it seemed magical. “I’ll knock if anything significant needs your attention, my peer.”
“Thank you, ajzelin,” Kor said, and there was a depth in his voice that made it clear what he was thanking me for.
I left them to one another, then. And when I had closed the door, I am not at all ashamed to admit, aunera… that I perhaps did a little dance-in-place for sheer glee.
“You seem happy,” the fathrikedi said from the door to the bathing chamber.
“Tell me, fathrikedi,” I said, moving carefully to a seat in one of the chairs by the window. “What is your favorite version of the parable of the broken pot?”
She snorted. “I hate them all. So much fuss over a stupid pot! Fix it, get a new one, do without, but for the sake of love, move on already and stop talking so much about it.” She joined me, dropping to her knees at my foot. “So, they finally decided to consummate their unrequited body-love.”
I glanced down at her. She was shrouded in the blanket from the massage table and looked somewhat more together than she had earlier. “You noticed?”
She sighed at my apparent naivete. “Osulkedi, anyone who glanced at them even once would notice.”
I laughed. “I am a sad specimen, it seems.”
“You are an artist,” she said. “It is a characteristic of artists.”
“To be daft?” I said, too pleased to be much distressed over her critique.
“To be consumed in their own worlds,” she said. “There is an inevitable travel time required for an artist to move from his world into ours sufficiently to communicate with us.”
I eyed the top of her head. “You are teasing me, fathrikedi.”
She met my eyes and grinned; this close I could see the hints of her distress, though she had done admirable work minimizing the swollen skin around her eyes. Their rims remained raw, though, like a hint of cosmetics gone wrong. I felt it like a color I could mix on a palette, a broken-open flesh color, like a fruit bruised to spilling…
“You see,” she said. “You’re doing it now.”
“I am observing that your eyes have cried, though you have hidden it well!” I objected.
“Shame observes that my eyes have cried, and I have hidden it well,” she said with a laugh. “You observe how they look, and you will be busy with that for long enough that the reason they look that way will only occur to you… later. As I said. You must travel into this world from your own.”
I hmphed, but I was not truly upset. I had helped my ajzelin—had Corrected him in the Emperor’s stead—had in fact served as his poor, bound-up fathrikedi at the shrine had served!—and we had both come out the other side well… better than well, even.
“It’s good,” she said after a moment. “They suit one another. And gods know Kherishdar’s sole Shame needed a good…”
This word she used, aunera, was rude in the extreme. I’m told you have several equivalents, but I would not use them, lest I give offense in two languages.
I cleared my throat and said, “This not being my area of expertise, I will bow to your superior knowledge.”
She laughed. “I won’t tease you about what you need, then, osulkedi—”
“I should hope not!” I interrupted.
“But I don’t think it’s heavy petting and hot sweating between the sheets,” she finished.
Surprised, I said, “Really?”
“Really,” she said, resettling her blanket around her narrow shoulders. “Not to say you wouldn’t benefit from a little physical relief. I just think you need help of a different sort.”
“Pray, don’t leave me in suspense, fathrikedi,” I said, looking down at her.
“You need… a massage,” she said, with a sly grin. “You have been moving like someone three times your age since before you crossed the Gate.”
“People three times my age are dead,” I said, ears flattened.
“Exactly,” she said.
“I’m not that stiff!” I said, and then flexed my toes experimentally. Wincing, I finished, “Much.”
She laughed. “A deal, then, osulkedi. You give me a name. I’ll give you a massage that will make you feel a third your age.”
“One third my age would be too young by far to be giving fathriked names of the kind you’re imagining,” I said. “I am not that old…” She waited, and I said, at last—because when can I turn down a challenge these days? Apparently never—”Very well. A name for a massage. But you must allow me to use the time under your hands to consider it.”
“If I do my job well, you won’t be able to think of anything!” she said, rising.
“Then you will have to make do with your name being ‘ahhh’,” I said.
“The out-breath of a contented, cared-for universe?” she said. “I could be happy with that. Come, Calligrapher. The sooner we repair to the bathroom… the sooner the happy lovers can make free with their noises without concerning themselves over our delicate ears.”
“Do you really think…” I began, and then stopped myself. I could only too well imagine Kor devoting some part of his thoughts to protecting my sensibilities, and being quite aware of where in the suite I was. “Lead on, fathrikedi.”
***
And now not only is the scene over… but you now know the scene that I can’t write for the book, because Farren didn’t see it, but that I think I will write for myself anyway.
Ajan’s point of view will do nicely…
Monday we can talk about that, and other Black Blossom administrivia. I think it will be a good time for it. Meanwhile, please consider voting for us on Top Web Fiction here. People do find us that way!
You can also subscribe, or email for a mailing address to send a physical donation.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, serial, writing
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I am looking at Black Blossom now; at 83Kish words, the book is a good 330-ish pages or so and we’re approaching the end. I am guessing we’ll wrap up in less than 20K, putting it about the same length as The Worth of a Shell, around 400 pages. At the rate we’re posting, then, probably a couple of months or so will see us finally done with Kor, Farren and all these broken pots.
And then we will take a deep breath.
…or maybe not. Because my brain is already plot-dumping the rest of Elijah’s story, which at 54-ish pages is just long enough to have gotten past the awkward stage and not long enough to make editing it to solve the problem with the setting untenable. And, frankly, I’m kind of astonished at people’s response to it… the excerpt has gotten more comments than anything I’ve posted in months, and most of them aren’t me responding to people. For whatever reason, something has struck a chord there.
So, I am making notes on that one, and remembering how fond I am of it. I’m even batting around real titles to replace the working title… my current front-leader is Small Town God (or Small Town Fae, etc, etc), but I haven’t settled on anything yet.
I’m also trying to decide whether to serialize Elijah’s story or not. I am fascinated at how long some of the pans in the draft are; the scene where Elijah meets Louis and Beryl wanders all the way in town and through three more encounters before it wanders all the way back, and that scene is many, many pages long with no break. It makes me realize how different my writing style was in the time before I took up writing novel-length serials, rather than paper-form novels. I want to say the latter is more immersive, but I don’t think Kherishdar is any less. What I think, sometimes, is that being able to break up a novel into serial-sized chunks has allowed me to make it more immersive. It’s like Kherishdar is dark chocolate ganache. You can’t eat a lot of it in a sitting, but if you know you can space out the servings, you can serve nothing but. Elijah is more like a two-hour meal. You spend a long time at the table, but you’re not eating solid fudge the entire time.
Anyway. It seems clear to me that this is the story that wants my brain, and I think if I write it with my head in a garret I’ll finish it faster, which would be nice. So I am contemplating doing that, and saving the question of whether to serialize it or just do an immediate to-e-book/print book release until after we’re done with Black Blossom.
Wow, it’s going to be weird being done with Black Blossom, isn’t it?
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: black blossom, books, elijah, process, serials
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